


Ouroboros

by magnificent



Series: Love and Other Deadly Sins [5]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-17 01:25:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9298037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: The Lone Wanderer is still the Lone Wanderer, but Charon of the Ninth Circle has a few extra powers hidden up his sleeve. Upon her death, Helena meets with the surly bouncer at the shores of the river Styx.





	1. One is the All

“Get her!”

I swear, angrily, and duck behind a pile of sandbags. _Goddamn Talon Merc. Again._ God, I hate these guys. They show up just when I've stopped looking for them, tensely, just when I think they might have finally decided to let me go.

“I want this one's head on a fucking plate!”

They're too strong for me. I can't think of a single time when I didn't escape with mortal injuries—thank god for stimpaks. Had these guys found me without any meds, I'd definitely be dead. I have a special little pack on my waist filled with chems that I use when I get into it with one of two groups—Super Mutant Behemoths or Talon Merc. Psycho, Jet, Mentats, aspirin, Adderall—you name it, I take it. Anything to help me survive.

“Come on, get around her!”

 _Fwip. Fwip._ Bullets clip into the wall beside me and one makes its way into my arm.

“Goddammit!” I snarl, and my hands are shaking as I reload my gun.

“While she's reloading!”

_Fwip._

One in my chest.

_Fwip._

One in my side.

_Fwip._

One in my—ugh—a jarring force that throws me back, making the bones in my neck crack, and I'm laying on my back, feeling blood trickle down my face from the hole in my forehead.

My eyes stare up at the sky, at the cloudless canvas that is already going gray, and my eyes flutter closed without my volition.

_And here it is: the end._

 

* * *

 

 

I fall into the depths, soundlessly, backwards into endless night. A rushing all around me. Shades of black mixing together, so fast and dizzying. My vision blurs over and over, and the nausea is so strong that I am certain that I'm going to throw up.

But I don't. Whatever place or eternity I am in, physical functions have no meaning here. I cannot puke or breathe or cry.

I stretch my arms up as I fall, and I watch my arms turn glassy and ethereal, see-through, as if I am made of fog. I lose all color, and almost all shape, and at last my falling slows to a fluttering descent, and I land on the banks of some wide river.

Blackness.

Everything around me is dark, and even the torchlight a few hundred feet away is in varying hues of black. There is no color here, no beauty. There is a ceiling high above me, many hundreds of meters away, and I imagine that my body's resting place must be somewhere above. Even now, I am sure, those goddamn Talon Mercs are picking through my pockets and eating my _goddamn Fancy Lad Snack Cakes._ Those _bitches!_

I sit up, slowly, and check myself over one more time. I am nude, sexless, featureless. My fingers end in nubby claw-tips. I press my hands over my face and feel gaunt features, blank, lidless eyes, a hollow mouth. _Could be worse._

I guess this is death? Shit. Honestly I wasn't sure if there would be anything of an afterlife. Pre-Vault era, most people would have agreed that there would be, but after the wars, the nukes... seems easier to believe that there's nothing at all.

I grumble and stand, checking myself over a few more times—it _feels_ like my body, feels natural to be moving and walking, but I feel no cold or warmth, nothing save for the sensation of pebbles beneath my feet, hearing nothing but the rushing of the black river.

Jesus. This is what lies beyond life? I was never in any hurry to die, but I guess I should have taken more time to enjoy the sunshine, huh?

And then I hear it—the sound of something moving on the waters. I turn my attention to the river and watch as a tiny beacon of light dips up and down, hanging from the prow of a gondola. A man stands rowing, immensely tall, hooded and cloaked in robes of the deepest black I have yet seen.

I'm not sure what I should do or say—I might think to run, but there is no place to go, and he seems to be rowing with a destination in mind, as if he knew that I was going to be here. To take me to the other side? I am alone now, but... is there more beyond? There would be, right? Surely I haven't lived the sort of life that would confine me to an eternal existence of endless solitude?

The gondola scrapes against the pebbles of the shore, and the oar digs into the smooth rocks, once, twice, thrice, landing it firmly.

“It is time,” the ferryman says.

I start at the voice. Gravely as the shore, as deep as the darkness.

I clear my throat. “Time...?”

“For you to cross.”

“Okay. What's on the other side?”

A short silence. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah.”

“Eternity.”

“Hm.” I tap my foot once, irked that I no longer have my steel-toed boots, that my irritation is silent—my footfalls are silent on the rocks. “Well, see, I don't really have much time for all of that nonsense, because I have places to go and people to fuck.”

Another pause.

“People to fuck up, I mean.” I smirk, pleased that I was able to get some sort of reaction out of the shrouded ferryman, even if I can't see his expression.

“I'm afraid that your time for doing _anything_ has passed.” His voice is just as unruffled as it was before. “Come. Onto the boat with you.”

I bite the tip of my finger. No nails to chew on. Dammit. “Hmmm. I think not.”

The ferryman sighs. “Must you have to be so difficult, shade?”

“Yeah.” _Wait..._ “Shade?”

“Spirit. Soul. The essence of humanity, the only piece of you that is left now that you have quitted the mortal realm.”

“The fuck?”

Another long silence, and I get the impression that the ferryman is struggling to keep himself from strangling me. “That is the proper name for your kind. Shade.”

“Huh,” I say, and there's a niggling sense of familiarity. Something about this ferryman... “So where am I, really?”

“On the banks of the river Styx. I am here to bring you across to the Underworld.”

“You know there's a town named Underworld on the surface, right?”

“In the realm of the living? Yes, I am aware.”

“And it's filled with ghouls?”

“Yes.”

“And wouldn't you know,” I say, “that I just left there today. So, I think if I can leave _that_ Underworld, I should be able to leave this one, too.”

“They are hardly the same.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, peering up at the dark hood. I can almost make out some features—the hard line of a jaw, the grim line of a mouth. But that might only be my imagination. “Because you sound familiar.”

The ferryman's hands clench more firmly on the oar.

“What does your face look like?” I ask, curious.

“I am sure that you would not remember me, even if we had met.”

“Come on!” I growl, exasperated. “I'm _dead._ Who the fuck am I gonna tell if you show your face?”

Reluctantly, he says, “I will show you if you cross over with me.”

“Finally,” I grumble, and take an uneasy step into the gondola. The ferryman reaches out, and takes my hand; I would have fallen due to the rocking of the boat if not for his aid. To my surprise, his hand is warm.

“Now,” I say, inordinately gleeful, “your face.”

He sighs, and removes the hood.

“Holy fuck!”

The ghoul's face tightens in frustration at my instantaneous reaction. “You did ask.”

I shake my head—his hands are drawing his hood back up, but I stop him, my eyes still intent on his face. “Nawh, not that you're a ghoul—you're the guy from the bar! Charon, right? What the fuck are you doing down here?”

“Ah,” he says, and nods. “My overworld self.”

“There are _two of you?”_

“No,” he says, “but I am in multiple places at once.”

“How the fuck does that work?”

“Let me go,” he rumbles, “and perhaps I will explain on the way over.”

As quick as I am able, I dart backwards, onto the pebbled beach behind me, and the ferryman turns his head away from me in exasperation.

“No,” I scoff. “You're going to tell me _now.”_

“I thought,” he asks through gritted teeth, “that our deal was that you would come with me if I showed you my face?”

“You're a goddamn idiot if you think I keep my deals.”

Charon grinds his teeth, a sound much like that of the gondola hitting the shore, and I snicker at his frustration. “What the hell do you want from me, shade? You are to come with me. There is nothing else for you to do. There is no escape from death.”

I snort. “Oh, but apparently there _is._ You're down here, but you're still up in the land of the living? I'm not doing _shit_ with you unless you get me back up there. I don't care if I have to stay down here at the same time, like whatever witchfuckery you're doing, but I need back up. I have things to do.”

“Unfortunately,” Charon says, “all of us leave things unfinished.”

“Not this lady,” I say, determined.

There is a pause, and the ferryman watches me for awhile.

“Very well,” he says at last. “I have more time than you might ever imagine. Test my patience all you like—no matter how much you sulk or pout, you will find yourself in the Underworld eventually.”

And with that, the ferryman rows away.

 

* * *

 

 

I don't know why I was left alone—wouldn't Charon want to stay to try to convince me to come with him still? But as time passes by, agonizingly slow, I can understand why he's done it.

The silence. It's maddening. There is nothing to distract me, nothing to focus on, and no way to keep track of the passing time.

There are a number of things that I try to do to pass the time; singing, swearing, shouting; but nothing that really takes my mind off this place. Nothing to take my focus and hold it, and nothing to make me wonder: _what is going on up above?_ What is happening to my body? Am I rotting? Have I been eaten by scavenging animals? If I can manage to get back, will I revive in the same body? Will I have any of my gear left?

And what about those who I haven't been able to help yet? Gob and Nova? The town of Arefu?

What will happen to my dad?

I do not know how long it is—hours, perhaps—but after a great deal of time, I hear the slightest fluttering noise. My attention is drawn up to the ceiling and I see another shade falling slowly, dropping and swaying like a feather. Drifting and then landing, gently.

The shade blinks in consternation, and then slowly sits up and looks around.

“Heya.”

They jump and whip around to face me. I raise a hand in greeting. “Wh-who are you?”

“Name's Helena. You?”

“Mason.”

“Sorry to tell ya, buddy, but they took yer package.”

A short silence. I give a meaningful nod and stare at his nether regions.

Mason takes a moment to survey himself and then scoffs, outraged, “You think I care about that now? I'm _dead.”_

“Oh, good, you remember too!” I say cheerfully. “I was afraid I'd have to explain.”

“Not much explaining to do when the last thing you see is a raider stickin' a knife into your ribs.”

“I guess not.” I shrug. “Still, if I were a guy, I'd take some serious umbrage at that.”

Mason only sighs. “And just as I said, not exactly the height of my concerns right now. You know what this place is? I mean, you're just like me, right?”

“Dead as a fucking doornail,” I agree. “What time of day was it when you died?”

“Nightfall.”

Shit. I'd been in here for at least twelve hours already.

“I lost the fight this morning,” I say. “And so you know, we're in the Underworld, or at least at its entrance. And apparently this is the river Styx.”

“From Greek mythology?” My fellow shade sounds surprised.

“Yeah, you'd think that there'd be a better afterlife, huh? I used to be a preacher, too, and yet here I am. I wasn't a very good one, though, or else maybe I'd have gone to heaven instead.”

“I think-” Mason starts, and then we both halt as we see the tiny light of Charon's gondola approaching. His voice lowers. “What is that?”

“The ferryman. Major douchebag. Listen, don't go over with him if he asks you. I think there's a chance that we can get out of here.”

Charon grounds his boat, and I smile innocently as he stares at the two of us, paired together, clearly having acquainted ourselves.

“Are you ready yet?” he growls.

“Why, Mr. Ferryman, you sound distrustful!” I gasp, mock-appalled. I put a hand on my heart-er, where my heart _should_ be. “You should remember that from the last time we spoke, that I am certainly not coming with you. I'm going back up _there.”_

I grab Mason's arm, and I'm a little disconcerted to feel that he is just as ephemeral as he appears—there's entirely too much _give_ to his skin, as if his whole arm will break into pieces if I clasp him too hard. _So, I am just as fragile._ I try to put it out of my mind for now. “And neither is he. We're going back.”

I catch a glimpse of Charon's teeth, a flash of white, as he grits them. “You've spoken to him. Convinced him that your idiotic, pathetic little temper tantrum has merit.”

“Huhuhu, yes, I have. And while it _is_ idiotic, it isn't pathetic, nor is it little.”

Charon drives the oar down into the pebbles, and leans down closer to us, without stepping out of the boat. His voice drips with derision. “Have you any idea how very little patience I have for this? I row shades to the other side. I am not a spiritual counselor. I do not have to listen to your religious qualms, or hear about your petty mortal obligations. In fact, if I choose not to, I can decide to consign you to an eternity of unrest, and never row you across at all.”

Mason freezes beside me.

I confess, I'm a little shaken by his words, too.

“ _Get on the boat. Now.”_

His tone brooks no argument, and the finger pointed menacingly at the seats of the gondola don't leave any room for doubt. Mason trudges forward, defeated, and takes a seat.

Still, I remain where I am.

“Shade.”

I lift my head sullenly.

“Onto the boat. Please.”

Huh. Strange. His voice had gone a little softer; I guess he's realizing that there's no fucking ordering Helena the Cake Queen around. Cajoling and begging _does_ tend to work much better. And while the softness of his voice is enough to make me shiver, I shake my head.

“No can do. I have business to attend to. Sooo, if you'll show me a way out, I'll be on my way.”

Charon grumbles something, steps back, and hauls off, his movements violent. I watch Mason and the ferryman disappear across the river, and my eyes stay locked with the other shade's for many minutes without either of us speaking a word or calling across the waters.

I can't be upset that he would want to board. Fuck—eternity _here?_ In this awful darkness? Charon's hinted intention to leave me to wander the banks of the river Styx for all time probably isn't an idle threat.

But I have things to do, just as I said. Not many people have something that they'd risk their own eternities for. But I do. I risk mine for my dad, sure, but also for those I never managed to save.

And so I wait. And I pace. And I curse, and complain, and all sorts of things. And at last, after many hours, I see the light of the gondola again.

I pause from my extremely flawed recitation of the _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ (at which point had become nothing more than amusing, ad-libbed nautical couplets) to watch. Huh. Given that he'd only come back for Mason, I was sort of thinking that he would stay on the other side until the next soul fell.

The boat halts, a good ways up the river from me, and Charon takes a length of rope from the gondola and ties it to the base of one of the torches—it's only now that I am actually looking that I realize that the torches have heavy bases, probably made from marble. And then he makes his way, slowly, down the beach towards me, leaving his gondola to bob in the water with the oar safely stowed inside.

“Shade,” he says, and his voice sounds very tired now. “I dislike playing games. Let me do my job. What can I do to convince you?”

I consider it for a moment. “Alright, you want me across? I'll cut you a deal. A real one this time, one that I won't break or mess up, on my honor, whatever you want me to swear on.”

Charon nods, and although his hood is up again, I can tell that his eyes are fixed intently on me.

“You have your overworld self, right? Use him to fix the things that I couldn't. Help the people of Arefu and Bigtown and Megaton and Rivet City. Save slaves from the raiders and Super Mutants. Pay off Gob's debt and give Colin Moriarty a good kick in the ass for pimping out a nice woman. Find my dad and ask him why the hell he left me in a Vault full of murderers.”

I stop, breathing hard, though there's no air in my lungs—I'm feeling dangerously out of control, and I think that maybe if I were still alive I might have burst into tears.

Charon is staring at me. “You... want me... to do all of that.”

“It's what I was setting off to do when I got shot by a pack of those nasty Talon fuckers.”

“...ah,” he says, and looks away. “Admirable goals, and unselfish ones.”

And then he stops.

“The hell?” I exclaim. “What? You're just going to stop there? You're not going to even try to help me?”

“Ah... if I were able, I believe that I would try to concede to your request, yes. I very rarely meddle in the affairs of the dead, let alone the living, but for you-”

He stops again, and shakes his head. “For your request, I would agree.”

“You can't?” I'm disbelieving. “You're a deity... spirit... boat god! Come on! And you can't do a few small things for me? Shoot up a couple of muties, beat up a sleazy old man, and find one missing doctor? Talk about _pathetic!”_

Charon growls. “It is a great deal more complicated than you make it out to be!”

“Yeah right! You just don't have the balls!”

Charon's hand seizes, and then he grips it into a white-knuckled fist. I'm _pretty_ sure he was about ready to tear my head off. Not certain. But pretty sure.

“You know very little about the things you speak of,” he says at last. “It has nothing to do with what I want. If I were capable, I would do all the things that you asked, and more. But since you have heard my name before, surely you have heard of the god named Hades.”

 _Ah._ “Yes,” I say cautiously. “So he's real too?”

“Nearly all of the Greek and Roman gods are based upon something real,” Charon says. “Although I am hardly a god, not in the sense that you are probably thinking of. Just like the Charon of your human legends, I am nothing more than a servant. I am bound to Hades; I am the ferryman. I deliver souls to the other side. And that is all.”

“So... he's your boss?”

If the meager lighting is reliable, it looks like Charon's lips are twisted up into a grim smile. “Hades is hardly anything so kind.”

“Oh. I guess asking for time off is out of the question, then.”

“Quite.”

I frown, rubbing my chin. “So, then. Hades is Ahzrukhal.”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” I think about that for a moment, remembering the ghoul from the bar. Yeah... I guess I can see that. Dark, charismatic ghoul, that feral grin as he poured a drink. The coldness and allure. I bite my lip, and then ask, “Do you... do you remember me? From the bar?”

Charon looks at me, and I wonder what he is thinking. Since he is standing closer to me, I can see the peeling skin through the shadows, the grim cut of his mouth, and the faintest glitter of watchful eyes.

“You died yesterday,” he says. “We usually do not have visitors. You were the smoothskin woman who bothered me at the door.”

I laugh, a little sadly, and nod. “My name's Helena,” I say. “I thought you were just some random asshole. Just a normal jerk hired to be a bouncer. But this...? How the fuck did everything get turned upside down?”

“Shade...”

“Charon,” I beg, “I can't go to the other side. I just can't. I _need_ to do these things. I need to help those people. If you can't do what I asked, then give me this. What can _I_ do to get you to let me go?”

The ferryman laughs, a dry chuckle like wind over autumn leaves. “Me, let you go? You can offer me nothing. Even if I did manage to push you back to the realm of the living, Hades would instantly know that I had done something to cheat him.”

“Fuck Hades, then.” I frown. “Are you, like... _enslaved_ to him?”

“I am unable to defy him,” he says quietly. “I am not a god, Helena. I am a force of nature. The depths of the Underworld were here long before the gods, and I with them. Long ago, this realm was my own, and I governed it. But unlike Hades, I was not a tyrant, and unlike Thanatos, I brought no harm to others. I simply oversaw the passage of time and change.

“But when the Titans fell to the gods, lots were drawn for dominion over the realms, and Hades was given the task of conquering the land of death and rebirth. We fought, and I lost. And now I serve him for eternity. There is nothing I can do; he stripped away my essence, and bound me with the contract of my surrender. As long as that contract exists, I am powerless.”

I swear, I feel my heart beat, once, at that admission.

“Charon,” I say, “send me back. I'll get your contract back from Hades. I'll free you, and then if you're free, you can do what I asked, right? I'll go down here again with you willingly, and I'll cross over. Just... _give me this.”_

A scoff. “You, a shade, trick Hades into giving you my essence?”

“You don't know how sneaky I am in the slightest, ghoul,” I say with a grin. “I could charm the pants off an Atomic priest.”

“I'm not sure if that's anything particularly difficult,” Charon says dryly.

“Okay,” I say, miffed that he's sassing me back, “then a step up, I could charm _your_ pants off.”

The ghoul raises an eyebrow. “That would be something.”

“Are you challenging me?” I tease.

“...I believe, given your persistence with most things, that this would be dangerous,” he says. “But... I would by lying if I said that I do not want you to succeed.”

I gawk at him for a few seconds, and then dissolve into a fit of cackles.

Charon shuffles his feet, awkwardly, and clears his throat. “I meant in retrieving the contract from Hades.”

“ _Sure_ you did,” I tease, and he glares at me. “But please. Believe in me. For just this one thing. If you can resist him at all, if there's _anything_ you can do...”

Charon turns away, and faces the wall for a few long moments. I tilt my head, watching him, this grim and silent ghoul older than the earth. My fate is in his hands.

Then he nods. “Yes. I do not have much power, but I will do what I can. I... I can push you from this realm for a full day, from the rising of the sun until its setting. Beyond that, and your flesh will wither away and die.”

I bite my lip. “That's... sorry. I don't mean to complain, but... that's all that you can do? I can't get any more time?”

The ferryman shakes his head, and if I didn't know him better, I might think that his eyes have a bit of sadness in them. “You are dead, Helena, and there is nothing I can do to fix that. I may stall it. That is all.”

“I... okay.” I take a deep breath. “That's fine. Are, uhm, are we ready to do this, then?”

Charon lifts a hand, not looking at me again. “Nearly. We must wait until sunrise.”

“How long until then?”

“About an hour.”

I sigh, and sit down on the beach, pebbles digging into my ass. Charon looks down at me in surprise, and I pat the rocks beside me. “C'mon, might as well rest a little before then.”

He sits, stiffly, a good foot away from me. I scoot closer—I'm sexless and dead, what does it matter if I'm close next to him?

“Charon?”

“Yes, Helena.”

“Will you tell me what's on the other side?”

“A multitude of things,” he says slowly. “Paradise for heroes. Unending limbo for normal people. And Tartarus for traitors and murderers. Hades judges each life himself.”

My stomach turns. “So... if I go through with this, then he's going to send me to Tartarus. To hell.”

“...yes.”

I clench my hands to keep them from trembling, and force a laugh. “Alright. Well. Good to know that now, I guess.”

A pause. “Have you changed your mind, then?”

“No.”

Charon is silent.

“...Chare?”

“Please. No... _epithets,”_ he says, pained.

“This is the last bit of time I have to relax, I guess,” I say. “After this, it's only gonna be plotting against Hades, and then torture for all eternity. Right?”

Charon shifts his weight uneasily, which is about the best answer I'll get out of him.

“Then... will you do me a favor?”

“Am I not already about to do so?” he demands.

“Shut up,” I pout, “this is different.”

“Very well.”

“Will you... hold me?”

Charon turns his head in surprise, and I fidget. “I... I've never been with a man before,” I say shyly, “and I'm not exactly about to be, ever, but... I... I want someone to touch me and protect me. Even if it's not real, I want... just once.”

He snorts, a little uncomfortably, I think, and says, “And you think that I would be the best candidate for this?”

“Well, you're the only one here, right?” I stare up at him, waiting, and then crawl onto his lap. I don't hear any sounds of dissatisfaction, so I guess I'm alright—he opens his legs a little wider, making room for me on his lap, and puts his arms around me. Okay. Maybe a little _more_ than alright.

I tuck my head against his chest, and listen to his beating heart. Ah... the things that we miss when we die. Sorrow stirs in my own silent chest at the sound. _I wish..._

“You do realize that I am a ghoul, correct?” he asks, the sound rumbling in his chest, vibrating against the length of my body.

I snicker. “No. I had no idea. Come _on,_ I've seen both your overworld self and your face down here. I _know_ that you're a ghoul.”

He says, “Most people would not-”

“Am I most people?” I ask coyly, looking up at him.

“No,” he agrees.

I close my eyes, and listen to his soft breathing, enjoying the feel of his powerful chest rising up and down against me. His arms are larger than I expected, and more powerful, locking in around me, trapping me in place, and it's intimate enough to make me quiver. It's... it's as if he doesn't want to let me go. A convincing farce.

But even though there's nothing there, nothing else besides the smallest of comforts that the ferryman is affording me, it makes me feel loved. And that was all I wanted, right? Just to feel loved one last time, and imagine, for a single hour, that I am treasured by a man.

I curl my hand into his robes. His head dips down and he rests his cheek against my head.

I sigh. “Wish I still had hair.”

“You are a shade,” Charon reminds me.

“Yeah, no shit. Still.”

“There is nothing wrong with its loss,” he says stiffly, and I grin.

“Yeah, you _would_ say that, wouldn't you? Why _are_ you a ghoul, anyway?”

“We change with the times,” Charon says. “Everyone is affected by radiation, even gods and spirits.”

“That blows,” I say, and I peek up at him to see his jaw tense in irritation. He shifts again. “Hey... thanks again. For this.”

“It will be dawn soon.”

I press my face against his chest. “I'm... I'm scared.”

“You do not have to go,” he says gently. “I would not think any less of you.”

But if I don't... Gob, Nova, Dad... all the others...

“I don't have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Charon says quietly. “You are brave.”

I nod, still nestled against his chest, my fists clenched in his robes. I can feel the ghoul's eyes on the top of my head. I stay pressed against him for a few more moments, and then sit back. Maybe it's because I'm dead, but I feel no shame from having cuddled with the ferryman. I have bigger things to be concerned about.

A small voice in the back of my head nags at me: _Dawn is coming..._

I am kneeling before him, my hands pressed to my knees, my face downcast. Here it is. My one and only shot. Return to life, free Charon, and outsmart a god.

Easy as pie.

“Alright,” I say, my voice breaking. “I'm ready to go.”

 

 


	2. Alchemy

We are standing together, his hands clasped around mine, this reaper with robes black as midnight, shrouding me in his darkness.

“I am going to fill you with my energy,” he says. “You will wake up shortly. You will have about fourteen hours to find a way to take the contract. Do you have any questions?”

“Mm. You know where he keeps it?”

Charon hesitates. “A safe, in the bar. I am sure that once he feels my energy leave me in such a vast quantity, he will know that I have done something to betray him. I am already under orders to kill anyone who attempts to open the safe. Knowing that I have acted against him, he will likely force me to watch it even more intently.”

“Shit.”

“It _will_ be difficult,” he says, firmly but not unkindly. “You still have a chance to turn back from this. If I am forced to kill you, I will have to row you across regardless. There will be no more chances; my power will have been spent, never to return.”

My eyes widen. “Fuck! This won't, like, kill you, will it?”

“It is temporary,” Charon promises, “provided that my essence is returned to me.”

I force a smile. “Then, I have to make this work, right? Both for me and for you.”

“Yes,” Charon says, and his expression is unreadable. “You must.”

And then he begins.

Feeling his power... it's nothing that can truly be described. Pain. The sharpest sensation of pain that I have ever felt, starting in my lungs, icy splinters stabbing all over my insides. Given the gentle expression on his face, I had no idea that it would hurt so, so badly.

I whimper and collapse to my knees; Charon follows me down, catching my waist before I hit the ground, and his right hand supports my head from lolling back. His thumb runs over my cheek for a brief moment, and if it weren't for that sweet gesture, I'd think that he was trying to kill me because of how agonized I am. Pain knifes through me, over and over.

It's not just the pain, either; I can feel Charon's essence inside of me, a thick roiling darkness that drowns and stifles. Like as if my insides are filling up with crude oil. It's a sickening feeling, the sort of way you get when you're about to puke, your mouth filling up with saliva, but nothing's coming out? That's how it feels. A sense of awful _wrongness,_ an alien and agonizing feeling. Nausea. Cramping.  _Pain._ An anguished cry escapes my throat, and I feel my vision fading out. _Can shades pass out?_ I wonder distantly. _Or am I just dying?_

I can feel myself weakening and disappearing. My limbs go slippery and boneless, saggy and formless. Fog slides over my eyes and mouth, disfiguring me, adding to my pain. _He's killing me. He's killing me!_ I want him to stop, _it hurts so much_ , but my mouth is gone and I can no longer beg. He keeps forcing more and more of himself into me, until there's nothing left; there's nowhere for me to go. My eyes melt apart in my body, and I have the briefest sensation of my body dissipating.

And I am gone.

 

* * *

 

 

“Uhh!” Air sucks into my lungs, painfully hot, and the temperature melts the ice in my body. I gasp several more times, and heat rushes through me, my blood sharply coming from ice-cold to ninety-eight point six degrees. My body thaws. Frozen blood sluices through my veins, scraping through my system, and begins to move, faster and faster; my heartbeat goes from zero to eighty in fifteen seconds.

I blink, watching the world swim into focus around me. The sight of the blue sky is so shocking to me; after having been in the Underworld, all those shades of black—

 _The Underworld._ I sit up, taking another deep breath, and look myself over in horror. _I was dead—I was dead—but... what..._

It was a dream. It was just a dream, right? There's no way that I could have died—could have met a fucking _Greek god of all things..._ though, he'd said he was a spirit, a force of nature, not a god.

I shake my head. _I can't believe it—don't want to believe it—_

I sit up, still shivering, and check myself over.

There. There's my proof. Holes punched through my armor, and dried blood streaked all over my body. There's no way anyone could have survived the blood loss, even if I _hadn't_ been shot in the brain.

I take in a shuddering breath, and check my pockets. No caps. No ammo. I still have my M1 Garand, though, and both pistols, but no ammo to speak of. No food.

 _Shit._ It was real. It really happened.

Which means, I have less than fourteen hours to live.

I touch my hair once, biting my lip. This is the last time I'll have hair. Or boobs, or lady parts, apparently. It's just too bad that I won't get a chance to make use of 'em, because I doubt I'll have any time left over after freeing Charon to enjoy myself. If I can even succeed.

Monumental. If I really wanted to, I could give up on this, and take the lesser bet—walk back to Megaton and at least help out Gob and Nova before I die. But then that'd doom everyone else I want to save.

So... which is it? Help Gob and Nova, or risk everything to try to save them all?

I take a deep breath, thinking of Charon's grim face, the shine of unseen eyes, glittering like stars beneath his hooded robes, his gentle and graceful movements as he steered the gondola through midnight waters.

_He needs me too._

 

* * *

 

 

“Back again, tourist? You weren't gone for long.”

I give Willow a weak smile. _Longer that you can know, darlin'._ “Yeah, well... I couldn't stay away. Missed seeing babes as hot as you.”

Willow plays along, wiggling her eyebrows at me as she takes a drag on her cigarette. “Better be careful, smoothskin. Might get burned.”

“Shit,” I say, my grin a little more genuine this time. “Good thing I invested in that asbestos bodysuit.”

Willow cackles, and waves me on through.

I get a few glances from ghouls; nothing like the enthusiastic welcome I'd received from Quinn and Winthrop. The latter, though, shouts a greeting to me and waves. I wave back, smiling. _I need to go find some more scrap metal for him,_ I muse. _Since I only had two lots on me when I first arrived..._

My throat locks up, and I swallow painfully, holding back tears. Shit. That's right. I won't be able to find any more for him, because I'm dying. Two lots of scrap metal, and that's all. That's all there will ever be. There's nothing more I can do for him.

I try to smile, through my tears. I'm not the only good person in the wastelands, at least not the only saint with a gun. Quinn looks after these people, and finds things to help them out. And if I can free Charon...

I force myself to remember my mission, to draw on that wellspring of hope and determination that I'd had on the shores of Styx, to find the strength to face this task.

Up the stairs. Towards those heavy double doors. That sign with bronze lettering. _The Ninth Circle._ The irony isn't lost on me, now that I know the full story. It's not just a stupid play on words because of the name of the town; it's as much the domain of Hades as the literal Underworld is. This is his bar, his turf, and somewhere inside are the overworld counterparts of both entities.

Along with Charon's contract.

I push through, and just like the last time that I entered, I come face-to-face with Charon.

The ghoul is just as I remembered him, and more. I see the oozing monster with that hard glare, the presence of heady masculinity surrounding him, the strength in his posture. The cold-hearted bodyguard with powerful hands and a black shotgun.

But I also see the ferryman hiding underneath. The silent sadness in his eyes, the weariness from eternity shining through.

My eyes flick over him, and I don't say anything. I'm still struggling for control over myself, to keep myself from breaking down in fear and grief.

Only one way to fix that.

“Hey, hey, hey!” I call cheerfully across the room. “Azzie, my man! Still have that extra bottle of scotch?”

Ahzrukhal— _Hades—_ looks up from his transaction with Patches, hurriedly swiping the caps off the countertop and into his pockets. I can't resist grinning. He's the motherfucking god of death, but he still tries to sell Jet on the down-low? What the fuck does he care if someone sees him? He could just blast them into a billion little pieces and use their shades as his personal playthings for all eternity.

_Just like he could do to you._

My grin fades and I saunter up to him, trying not to think about that.

“Ah. Miss Helena. Mm, yes, let's see... ten caps.”

I grimace. “Running damn low. Can I start a tab?”

Ahzrukhal stares at me for a moment, and then nods. He passes the bottle across to me, and I take the bottle gleefully. “Talisker! You dog. You tryna to get up my skirt or something?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Only trying to take care of a good customer,” he says smoothly. “We at the Ninth Circle are grateful for your patronage.”

I turn as I'm halfway through chugging the bottle of scotch, and accidentally make eye contact with Charon. He's staring at me, his eyes wide and jaw slack, and his reaction is so unexpected and hilarious that I double over, choking and laughing. Scotch sprays across the room, and Ahzrukhal sighs.

“Your guard,” I say, still giggling. “He's a cutie.”

A ghoul at the other end of the bar looks up at that statement. “You've got good taste, smoothskin,” she says with a smirk. “Strong and silent, huh?”

Ahzrukhal scoffs.

“Jealous, Azzie?” I tease. “Scotch. Lots of scotch, that's how you get into a girl's good graces. What's the max I can get on my tab?”

“Thirty caps,” he says reluctantly.

“Shit. That's three bottles,” I say happily. “Can you get two more ready for me, then?”

He grumbles.

“Ooh, thanks much, darling,” I giggle. I glance at the ghoulette, who's come down the bar to sit next to me.

“Gaja,” she says.

I lift my bottle in greeting. “Helena.”

“You serious about fancying Charon?” she asks, curious.

“Hm,” I say, and mull it over as the alcohol works through my system. He's strong, sure, and scary, but he's also sweet and kind. And he's damn good at cuddling. “Mm. Why not? S'long as his equipment is still there.”

Charon is staring at me in abject horror, and Gaja and I both burst into raucous laughter.

“Girl, I think you and I are gonna get along,” she says admiringly. “So. Uh. You're a ghoulfucker?”

I snicker. “Not yet, I'm not.”

“Ladies,” Ahzrukhal says warningly.

Gaja rolls her eyes. “This is a _bar,_ Ahzrukhal. And you've got two drunk girls together, in front of a fine slice of _man?_ Do you really think we can hold back?”

“I hear enough whispered conjectures about my bodyguard's prowess in bed,” Ahzrukhal says shortly. “I would _really_ prefer to not hear them shouted across the bar.”

Gaja and I look at each other.

“So... how good _do_ you think he is?”

We both giggle at the horrified expression on Charon's face, and Ahzrukhal lets out a heavy sigh.

I start on my second bottle.

“You really know how to put 'em down, babe,” Gaja says. “Are you sure you're not gonna make yourself sick?”

“Gaja. I am Helena Escobar, Former Seventh Day Adventist and Alcoholic Extraordinaire. I do shots for breakfast. I bathe in whiskey. I cry pure ethanol. Do you really think that I could be bested by a mere fucking two bottles?”

“Well,” Gaja says, “I didn't know you had those fancy titles until now. Guess I have to revise my question. How much _can_ you drink until you make yourself sick?”

“Two bottles to get proper-drunk,” I explain, tipping back again. “Three before I'm swaying and passing out.”

Gaja smiles, and spreads the pleats of her dress over her knees, rearranging herself. “Impressive, for a smoothskin.”

I smack her arm. My hand touches something sticky, but I don't mention it; not her fault she's oozy. “Now, don't start with that smoothskin shit. _For a smoothskin,”_ I mock, twisting my face. “Oh, you're a good person, _for a smoothskin._ A good drinker, _for a smoothskin._ Don't you dare.”

Gaja takes this more seriously than I expected. She frowns, staring at me, and then at her beer. “Right... sorry. I didn't mean to.”

I shrug. Finish off the scotch. Ahzrukhal goes to put the third bottle on the countertop, but I stop him.

“That's enough for now,” I say. “Gaja. I gotta talk to you about somethin' else. Girl stuff. Come with me?”

“Sure, yeah. Lemme pay Ahzrukhal.”

I get up and stand with Charon as she digs the caps out of her battered purse.

He does not look very happy.

“Hey,” I grin, as the room spins in and out of focus. “You look like you might be pretty comfy. Like, as if it'd be really fun to cuddle with you. Betcha I could fit right in those arms. Huh. I can almost imagine it. Isn't that strange?”

He grinds his teeth, furious, glaring down at me. Hisses, “I spent _everything_ on this one chance, and this is how you are wasting it? Drinking and crass comments? You realize that I have no more opportunities to be free? For thousands of years, I was—and now—”

He bites off whatever he was about to say. I see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, and I see the darkness in his eyes come to the forefront, as if veiling him from the world. He looks away from me, and stands, stoic, his hands fisted and at his sides.

I slur, “Ain't so bad, babycakes. S'okay. I'm grateful for the chance t'be alive again. Won't waste it. You wanna fuck before I die again?”

He doesn't look like he's heard me. He is staring straight ahead, as if I am not there at all.

I shrug, and Gaja joins me, giving Charon and I a curious glance as she approaches. “Did I mishear something?”

Charon grits his teeth.

“Oh?” I ask.

“I distinctly heard the words _wanna fuck,_ but that has to be wrong, because you would never be so unsportsman-like as to ditch me to deal with the bartender while you seduce our prey?” Gaja wags a finger at me. “Not fair.”

I giggle and link arms with her. “C'mon, you thirsty whore. Let's get outta here.”

My staggering eases the instant the doors close behind us, and my smile fades. “Hey. Where's a good place to talk?”

Gaja points over to an area near Snowflake's shop; the ghoul is gone right now, probably out huffing Jet, and so we're free to speak without anyone listening.

“What's up?” she asks.

“I need your help,” I say.

“Hmm...” she nods, and we both sit down on the floor, and lean against the wall. “Is it about Charon?”

“Sort of.”

She's silent for a little. I see her smooth out what remains of her hair, careful to not pull any of it out. Her face is thoughtful, and almost as somber as mine. _Good._ I'm glad she's sensed the mood. “Why were you pretending to be drunk?”

“To convince them that I'm not a threat.” I take a deep breath. _And here we go._ “Gaja. Listen. There's some serious shit going on, and I need someone to do something and not ask questions. I shouldn't be involving anyone else, but... I can't do this alone.”

“You'd trust a buzzed stranger?”

“I have no choice,” I say. “You seem nice and smart and _good._ I'm just hoping that you won't rat me out. If you won't do it, though, at least give me some advice.”

“Huh. Well, you've definitely got my attention,” she muses. “What do you need?”

“I gotta get into Ahzrukhal's safe.”

“Shit,” she says, impressed. “You're going after the contract?”

“Huh? You know about that?” I ask, shocked.  _Is everyone here someone from Greek mythology?_

She shrugs. “Everyone knows that Charon hates the guy. And the contract is common knowledge. He's... like, conditioned, you know? Some kinda pre-War military experiment, I think. He's gotta listen to every damn thing that bartender says.”

I nod. So... Gaja isn't a Greek goddess. Or a spirit, or a 'force of nature'. That's good. And it doesn't sound like she's loyal to Hades. Still... if she _were_ a goddess, it'd probably make my job easier.

“Yeah,” I say. “I want to free Charon.”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “ _Now_ who's a thirsty whore? You're trying that hard to get a guy indebted to you?”

I laugh and shake my head. “That's not it. I mean, he _is_ cute, but... no. I just want to help him out.”

“Well,” Gaja says, “okay. What do you need me to do?”

“You, you're gonna help me?”

“Sure, why not? S'long as it's nothing that'll get me killed.”

I shake my head. “Nah. I need you to use your... hm. Natural talents. Nothing dangerous.” My gaze rests on Gaja.

“Spit it out,” she says.

So I do.

“I need you to seduce Ahzrukhal.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed writing Azzie so damn much. ;_;


	3. Eternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

“You... want _me._ To seduce Ahzrukhal.”

“Mm.”

“Okay, let's back up here. _Why_ am I doing this again?” Gaja's tone is incredulous. She shakes the stringy locks of hair out of her face and blinks at me.

“Well, there are two jobs. You wanna pick the potentially-deadly one?”

“Um... no.”

“It's a distraction,” I explain. “I need to get him out of the room. Into his bedroom, if you can, away from the safe.”

Gaja splutters. “What if he wants to _do the do?”_

I smirk as I consider it. Not that I wouldn't feel bad for Gaja if it actually came to that, but... still. It's funny as hell. “Well... if you've ever wanted to know what fucking Ahzrukhal is like...”

“Helena!” she growls. “That's _weird!_ You know how old he is?”

“You know Charon's older than he is, right?” I toss back. “You can flirt with Charon but not with Azzie?”

“Charon's _different._ He's _hot.”_

“Azzie's cute.”

“You flirt with him, then!”

“No, I'm distracting Charon.”

“Fuck you!”

“Not like _that.”_

“Whatever.”

I snicker at her huffy reply. I take my time picking my next few words, knowing that this is the part that she'll have the most problems with. Hell, even _I_ have problems with this part, and I made it up on the fly while drunk off my ass.

“I'm going to get the Mr. Gutsy to try to kill Charon.”

 _“What?”_ Gaja's eyes are wide. “Cerberus?”

I frown. _Cerberus._ More of that Greek mythology bullshit.

“Charon's sworn to protect the safe, right? So, the only way to keep him from knowing what I'm doing...”

“You're gonna get Ahzrukhal into another room with me, and then have Charon's back to you while you go for the safe. With a _Mr. Gutsy firing lasers at you.”_

“Not at _me,_ at _Charon,”_ I correct. "They don't go after civilians. Just ghouls and intruders."

“You're a goddamn lunatic.”

I hum in pleased agreement.

“What if he _dies?”_

“He won't,” I promise.

“And if he does?”

“He _won't.”_

Gaja sighs. “Fine. Okay. But, come on, isn't there any other way?”

“Like what?” I challenge. “You got a plan?”

“Nn... well... _I_ could distract Charon, and _you_ could distract Ahzrukhal...”

“And who'd go for the safe?” I ask, exasperated.

She brightens. “Patches'd do it for a few beers and some Jet.”

I roll my eyes. “And is Patches any good at picking a lock?”

“...point taken.”

“Yeah. And don't even suggest one of us trading places, fuck, if Patches goin' down on Charon isn't the worst fucking thing I've ever imagined.”

Gaja cackles.

“So,” I continue, shoving the image into the _burn pile_ of my thoughts, “people trust you, right? Before we go back in there, can you tell everyone to keep their doors shut and stay out of the hall? Just tell 'em that the Mr. Gutsy is undergoing some maintenance and that they should stay inside in case something goes wrong?”

Gaja huffs. “They'd _better_ trust me. I've been living here for over twenty years.”

I nod. “Good. You start on that, then, yeah?”

While Gaja is cheerfully poking her head into Carol's Place to warn them, I'm striding up to the Mr. Gusty, who's humming around, propulsion system blazing. He fixes me with one of his golden shining headlights.

“Scanning for threat... armed. Initiating defense protocols.”

I've never liked machines. They freak me out. I hate how the programming works, how these robots can imitate life closely enough that you can  _almost_ be fooled. You can  _almost_ imagine them as real people with emotions and thoughts. But they're not. It's like an emotional uncanny valley. They're so fucking creepy that I can barely stand to be around them. I don't even like Wadsworth. I don't let him touch any of my things; he's currently locked in my closet, powered off.

“Hey there, pal, easy,” I say. “I'm a friend.”

The robot whirrs, looking me up and down, then rotates an arm. “Hah! A friend of the ghouls is a friend to all! Yay! Go ghouls! Go Underworld! ...damn this zombie programming!”

I tilt my head. _Well. That's unexpected._ “You really hate them, huh. Why?”

“Those abominations belong in hell! And if I did not have this damned combat inhibitor, I would put them there myself!”

Interesting. I knew that most robots were programmed to kill ferals, but I didn't know that this one in particular had evolved some sort of consciousness. Which might make this programming job even easier than I'd thought.

“Hey, so, uh... can you tell me where the combat inhibitor is located?”

Cerberus pops open a panel, his arms snapping angrily, and growls, “There! There it is! That damn chip that those maggot-infested zombies placed there! Crippling me! Damn commie bastards...”

 _I see._ A microchip, soldered into the circuitry of the Mr. Gutsy's innards, with several copper lines connecting it to Cerberus's hardware.

“So, uh... would you want me to remove it?” I ask, casually.

“Any attempt at removing it means that I must report directly to Winthrop and allow him to install security upgrades!” Cerberus barks. “...although, if you can do so without my knowledge, all the better. Unfortunately, I am incapable of turning a blind eye! So I cannot lower my guard!”

“Alright. Well. _If_ I were to remove it, what would you do?”

“Kill the commie bastards!”

I pause thoughtfully. “You know Charon?”

“The Ninth Circle bodyguard scum!”

“Yeah, him. Listen, you've been around these shufflers long enough, you know they're pretty weak for the most part, right?”

“Affirmative!”

“So, if... say... something were to happen to your combat inhibitor...” I pause meaningfully, and Cerberus fixes me with a second visual input scanner while leaving the third free to glance around. It means I have his attention. Good. “It would make sense to take out Charon while you're in peak condition, right? And kill all the weaker ones after?”

The Mr. Gutsy pauses, and I see something deep inside of it whirring and spinning; he hasn't closed the panel yet. His arms wave as he processes my suggestion.

“Yes! That would be a fine idea! Damn, but if only I were able to deliver Uncle Sam's message of democracy to these commie pieces of shit once and for all!”

I snip a wire and the machine collapses.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, and the two of us are cheerfully striding back into the bar, pretending to be just as drunk as before, even though the serious conversation has sobered both of us up a good bit. Down on the first floor, Cerberus is passed out, undergoing a routine systems check before he reboots... and when he does, he's going to find something missing.

Lucky him... let's just hope he goes for my suggestion.

“Azzie, my man! Hey, great, you didn't drink my last bottle! I'm ready for that now.”

Ahzrukhal puts it on the counter, looking a little perturbed that I'm still up and moving, and I twist the top off eagerly.

“So...” Ahzrukhal starts. “What was that about? You both go running off and then come back in looking like you're on some kind of crusade?”

_Shit he's onto us!_

“No,” I say, miffed. “We were just talking about... delicate matters.”

“I wanna fuck you,” Gaja blurts.

I start coughing, choking on my scotch, and for the second time that night, spray scotch across the room. This time, though, most of it ends up on Ahzrukhal himself, who is looking both shocked and disturbed. I eventually manage to clear my throat, and the coughing immediately turns to giggling.

“Come again?” Azzie asks faintly.

Gaja's eyes are stretched wide in panic, but of all things, she continues. “I mean... I've liked you for a long time... _Azzie.”_

I make a vain attempt to not cry laughing. I do not succeed.

Ahzrukhal pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “I have never seen you this drunk. Were you drinking before you came into the bar as well?”

“Don't change the subject,” she breathes.

 _Oh god her voice._ It's so fucking sultry that it's laughable. And I'm well into my drink, still buzzed enough that everything is even more hilarious than it should be. I bury my face into my hands, my shoulders heaving.

There's a long silence where I imagine Ahzrukhal to be looking from me to Gaja to Charon, completely nonplussed.

“What the hell brought this on?” he asks, utterly confused.

“I wanna get to know you better,” Gaja says, seeming to find a rhythm. “A _lot_ better. Alone.”

“That does not answer my question!”

Damn, Azzie actually sounds freaked out. Not in a good way, but at least he's not kicking us out, which is really all I care about now.

Gaja pauses, and then says, “I've only ever flirted with Charon to make you jealous, Ahzrukhal.” Her voice is soft. _Finally_ she's beginning to sound believable. Hell of a rocky start there. “But you've never really reacted the way I wanted you to. So... there it is. All out on the table. Er, countertop. I like you. I've liked you for a really long time. And you piss me the hell off, giving me hope and then crushing it down. I...”

She pauses, and then says, trying to laugh, “I'm sorry, I'm blabbering.”

The Greek god masquerading as a man says, “Gaja... please go.”

She flinches. “W-what?”

My stomach has flipped, and my head is back up, although I'm not looking at either of them, trying to keep Ahzrukhal from remembering my presence. _Shit. Shit. Shit! It's not working!_ Although, given what we've been trying to do, of _course it wouldn't fucking work!_ This is _Ahzrukhal! Hades!_ If he were actually interested in mortals, wouldn't he have a girl already? Or a harem, maybe? That's what Zeus did, right?

Shit. Oh, the ideas we come up with when drunk.

“I'm not going to deal with this right now,” Ahzrukhal says quietly. “Please. Just go. If you're truly insistent about this, then you may speak with me when you're sober.”

“Azzie!”

“Go,” he says again. “I don't want to ask Charon to force you out, so please obey me. But... do not worry. I won't ever mention it again if you don't. So...”

I blink, horrified at the rapid turn of events, and Gaja and I stare at each other. Her eyes are partially filled with tears.

“He turned me down,” she whispers, and it's probably a good thing that I know she's upset because I can't save Charon, not that she's actually distraught about Ahzrukhal.

But...

He falls for it.

“I'm sorry,” the bartender says again.

And _that_ is when Cerberus wakes up.

“Woah nelly!”

The shout comes from downstairs, audible even through the Ninth Circle's heavy doors. Gaja stops dead, still staring at me, and we wait for one frozen moment.

“Detecting... _loss of combat inhibitor?”_ Cerberus's voice rises to an exultant shout. “All weapons systems online! Hahahahaha! Welcome to hell, zombie bastards!”

And the sound of firing lasers reaches our ears. _Shit! He's going for the other doors first! Goddammit! That fucking lying piece of shit!_

“Charon,” Ahzrukhal says, keeping his voice calm. “Go take care of it.”

Motherfucker.

“Go!” I shout, as Charon heads out the doors without a single glance in my direction. “Gaja, Azzie! Get into the other room! I'm going to provide back-up! _Shit!”_

“But-” Ahzrukhal starts.

Angrily, I shove Gaja as hard as I can, and she slams into the god's chest. He reacts automatically, bracing her with his hands, keeping her balanced—he's holding her arms—they're pressed close together—and their faces are very, very near.

It takes me a few more seconds to realize that Ahzrukhal's low groan is one of pain and not desire; apparently when I'd pushed her into him, she'd accidentally kneed him in the balls. I am satisfied to know that even gods have the same weaknesses.

“Get into the other room!” I snap. “Now!”

Gaja half-drags Azzie away, giving me a meaningful look.

 _Now,_ indeed.

Charon is downstairs, and I hear the report of his shotgun as he fires on the robot. Azzie is out for the time being, and Gaja has found some sort of bizarre weakness in him that I hope she is not too empathetic to abuse. He has some sort of fondness or sympathy for her, or at least a fondness for drunk and sappy women.

And that leaves me alone, in the bar, with the safe unprotected.

I dig out my lockpicks and get to work.

It's slow going. I'm not surprised that Ahzrukhal has extremely heavy security on the safe; I break five picks before I can even nudge one of the tumblers. I have to go for my smallest tools, continually rotating and pushing and praying to whatever gods might listen—who are Hades's enemies again? He has beef with Zeus, right? Should I pray to him? Fuck, this is confusing.

While I'm finishing a rushed prayer to Hera, _My lady, please, I swear I will marry the fuck out of Charon if you help me, please, you're the marriage goddess, right? I will be so fucking faithful to him if you let me succeed, please—_ and it clicks open.

“Motherfucker!” I shriek, using the swear as a celebratory expression, and snag the bundle of papers inside. And the caps.

I've forgotten, for a moment, that I'm doing to die at nightfall, but it's too late to do anything with the caps now. Maybe Charon can use them to help people out.

I hear an enraged shout from Ahzrukhal the instant my fingers touch the parchment, and the contract pulses in my hand. _Is this..._

I glance at it as I race out the doors, and I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it's written in Greek.

Below, Charon is still fighting the Mr. Gutsy. I'm worried that the machine is giving him so much trouble; I know he won't die, but it's still worrying, because it might go after someone else at the same time, if it can bust down a door and get inside. That's what any proper war machine would try, anyway.

“Charon!” I shout, running down the stairs. “I have it!”

His eyes snap to me, assessing the situation, and his eyes gleam. He offers me a short nod and keeps firing.

_Hot damn._

“Let's get the fuck out of here,” I mutter, brushing by him. “Hey! Cerberus! I need to talk to you!”

“Eat lead, enemies of freedom!” the machine roars.

“Hey!”

“Ah!” Cerberus says, finally noticing me. “You! You did this!”

“Yeah,” I say, and instinctively cover my ears when I hear the crack of Charon's weapon. It's so fucking loud in this empty hall. Each round echoes tremendously.

“Well, you're not putting it back!” Cerberus shouts, and with that, turns one of his arms on me.

“Shit!” I yelp, leaping away from the burst out of the flamethrower. “What the hell?”

“Start shooting,” Charon growls, and fires again.

Well, I don't need to be told twice. I draw my laser pistol and start returning fire. It becomes pretty clear that Winthrop has made some serious improvements on this Mr. Gutsy, because he's nothing like the other war machines trapped in the ruins, forever protecting rotting buildings and dusty bones. Cerberus is powerful and well-maintained.

But not even he can stand up to both Charon and I. I get a few pretty decent dings on his hull, breaching him and sending sparks flying—he's gonna go down soon, and he knows it.

“Damn commie scum!” he snarls, and I cry out as my body is engulfed in flames. I drop back, screaming, and Charon takes up my slack, firing a few consecutive times, before dropping back to the balcony stairs across from me.

There is a short silence. We are both burnt, shot, and sweaty. Charon's eyes are bright, shining like gleaming chips of ice. He nods to me, and I'm just about to ease around the corner and keep firing when I hear a door open.

My heart drops.

_Shit._

“Hey,” I hear a slurred, pathetic voice. “Is it over now?”

I peek around the corner, and yes. Shit. Patchwork is wandering out from the Chop Shop, looking around idly at the scorch marks on the walls.

“Wow,” he mumbles. “Really, uh, _hic,_ did a number on this one... so... guess it's... huh?”

“Patches!” I hiss, and the ghoul looks up with a doofy smile as Cerberus's flamethrower engulfs him in a haze of flame.

“No!” I shriek, hearing the ghoul screaming in agony, and I race forward, firing over and over until all my energy cells are spent. And then I drop the weapon and start firing my pistol. The onslaught causes Cerberus to back up, and I drop by Patches.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I gasp. “Are you okay? _Fuck!”_

He's alive, doesn't look too bad off, but his clothes are still on fire and most of his hair is burnt off. I slap the flames off of his scalp, drag him to the side a little bit, and eventually just lay down on top of him to quench the fire.

_Fwip. Fwip._

Shit, Cerberus is still shooting at me. I'm out in the open, prone—the Mr. Gutsy has missed this time, but I won't be so lucky soon. Charon, though, seeing my predicament, comes to my rescue, giving me time to pull Patches to his feet.

“Come on, run! The Chop Shop!” I hiss. “Get back in there, you idiot!”

Patches shakes his head, wide-eyed, frozen. “If I move he's gonna shoot me!”

“He's gonna shoot you if you _don't_ move, dammit!” I snap, and grab his hand. “Come on! Do you wanna live or not?”

And... fuck. The junkie ghoul is shivering in terror, and I look back to see Charon reloading and a certain Mr. Gutsy floating closer to the two of us.

He raises an arm. The gun is trained on Patchwork, and if a robot could sound gleeful, it would be this one.

He says, “Here's a personal message from Uncle Sam.”

_Fwip._

I see the pistons firing, the release of the bullet. I see Patches frozen in place. I try to drag him, but I only serve to move him an inch, just enough to keep him from getting shot in the head. He whimpers; the bullet is buried into the wall, less than a centimeter away from his neck.

He's not gonna budge.

_Fwip._

I feel as if the world is moving in slow motion.

I step forward.

For the second time, I press myself over the ghoul, trembling behind me.

I feel pain in my shoulder.

_Fwip._

...in my chest.

_Fwip._

...in my belly.

The Mr. Gutsy collapses as Charon lands a lucky shot straight into one of the holes I'd made with my energy pistol. _“Democracy...”_ it whispers as its headlights die.

And I collapse too.

“Helena!”

_Charon._

I try to smile. Patches is still quivering above me, but he soon drops to his knees as Charon rushes to my side.

“The contract,” he says roughly, and I hand it to him; once in his grasp, it turns to ash. His eyes brighten for an instant, and then fade. Somehow, he looks older. Stronger. But also very tired.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“Mm,” I agree. _Kinda did give it my all._

Patches is crying. “What... why did you... for me...?”

“S'okay,” I slur. “S'okay.”

“No,” he sobs, and snot drips onto me from his noseless face. “No, please, don't... I'm not worth it. I'm falling apart, you should'a.... just let me die. It's all my fault.”

“No, hey,” I rasp. “It's okay. I was dying anyway. You're a ghoul, anyway. You'll live longer than me. Even if I didn't get shot, you'd still have lived longer than me. Your life is...”

“Worthless!” Patches wails. “I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry...”

“Shh. You're okay. You were scared.”

“I'm a coward!”

“You were scared,” I repeat. “It's okay. Your life isn't worthless. Okay? Keep... keep living... and take care... of yourself.”

The world is beginning to fade out.

Charon says, “Leave us.”

The sobbing ghoul flees, and I hear the door to the Chop Shop bang shut behind him.

“Helena,” he says, and his voice is warm and dark and kind.

“Hey.”

“You should have lived,” he murmurs. “You... I _doubted_ you, and you still managed to free me with nine hours left to go. You should have lived. You should have been able to relax and say goodbye and...”

“Life,” I say, “isn't fair.”

We're silent.

“Hold me?”

Charon sits back against the wall and pulls me into his lap. Smooths my hair away from my face, wipes the dirt and blood and sweat away, and rubs it out onto his armor. His expression is raw, concerned. His arms are around me, and I am enfolded in him.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Charon whispers.

_He is so warm._

“Charon?”

“Mm?”

“Will you really take care of my friends? Of all the slaves in the wasteland? Of my dad?”

“I will,” he promises. “I remember what you asked me to do. Don't worry.”

Another short silence again. His rough fingers are combing my hair, and his thumb is making lazy circles on my cheekbone. Reminiscent of when he forced me to turn from a shade into a living girl again, although the pain this time is much smaller.

"Please tell my dad that I love him... And be nice to Gob and Nova. They're all really sweet people..." My mind is beginning to wander.

Charon's thumb brushes over me again, drawing me away from the darkness. My eyes refocus on him.

“Will I see you again?” I ask, hating how pathetic my voice sounds.

“You will,” he says. “On the other side.”

“You're still there?” I ask. “You aren't going to keep working... for Hades, are you?”

He shakes his head. “It is my duty to bring souls to the other side. I will continue to do so.”

“Despite what he did to you?”

“It is not for him,” Charon says, “it is for the good of everyone. And he will not take my freedom again. Don't worry about me.”

I pause. “I'm dying, and I'm going to hell.”

The thumb stroking my face halts for a moment, and then continues. “Yes.”

“I'm scared.”

He says, “Be at peace.”

“Can't you do something?” I beg. “To keep me alive? Or to protect me?”

“No,” Charon says.

"Why... not...?"

"I cannot protect both myself and you," he says gently. "Hades is too powerful. If I were to try, he would retake me, and I would not be able to help your father or your friends. Isn't that why you made this choice? You do not regret it, do you?"

"No," I decide. "I don't."

"I am glad to hear this."

He continues to hold me.

"Mm," I say. "Charon?"

He does not reply. His ruined, pock-marked, craggy face is shadowed above me, his eyes half-lidded and gazing down at me. He is so warm. He feels like a furnace, and I am a piece of ice melting in his palm. He is a nightmare to behold, but strangely, his words have soothed me.

And I am at peace.

“It's okay,” I say, and I reach up towards his face. “Don't cry.”

The ferryman's teardrop falls onto the tip of my nose, and the world blinks out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
